Get to it, Dog!
by soulwriterchick
Summary: Joffrey wants to hear Sansa scream. But will the Hound do what is asked of him?  This story is complete and already posted over at the sansaXsandor livejournal community. I am posting it here as well for posterity.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This started out as a one-shot but then I went haywire with it. You may read only the first chapter or continue if you please. Also, Sansa has been aged up. 'Nuff said. :P

**Chapter 1**

_"The longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you," Sandor Clegane warned her._

_Sansa tried to hurry, but her fingers fumbled at buttons and knots. The Hound was always rough-tongued, but something in the way he had looked at her filled her with dread. Had Joffrey found out about her meetings with Ser Dontos? Please no, she thought as she brushed out her hair. Ser Dontos was her only hope. I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he's always liked me in this gown, this color. She smoothed the cloth down. The fabric was tight across her chest._

_When she emerged, Sansa walked on the Hound's left, away from the burned side of his face. "Tell me what I've done."_

_"Not you. Your kingly brother."_

_"Robb's a traitor." Sansa knew the words by rote. "I had no part in whatever he did." Gods be good, don't let it be the Kingslayer. If Robb had harmed Jaime Lannister, it would mean her life. She thought of Ser Ilyn, and how those terrible pale eyes staring pitilessly out of that gaunt pockmarked face._

_The Hound snorted. "They trained you well, little bird."_

_**~ From A Clash of Kings, chapter 32**_

They seemed to be walking forever and her slippers pinched her feet as she tried to match the Hound's long-strided pace. Sansa looked around her and realized they were in a part of the keep she hadn't visited before. "Where are you taking me?" she asked, her voice a breathless squeak.

His only reply was the way his mouth curved downwards in a frown.

The Hound finally stopped walking and stood before a pair of large ornate doors. She stood beside him, her breath heaving. From the brisk walk or from the sense of dread suddenly making her cold, she could not say.

"The King's suite," the Hound rasped before reaching for the handle.

Inside was a wealth of opulence. Each piece of furniture was gilded perfection and each fabric shone with thread of gold. Sansa vaguely realized that before Joff had killed her father she would have given anything for a glimpse of all this splendor. Now she just stood in the middle of a plush rug and shivered, holding herself tight.

The Hound turned to look at her. "Come on, little bird. This way." He conducted her through another set of doors.

She wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted her. The king was alone in his chamber, and he looked tiny in a large ornate bed that could have slept six people. He was plopped up against the headboard with half a dozen fluffy pillows. In his lap was a tray with a bowl of steaming soup that he was slurping noisily between sniffles.

Sansa pulled her thoughts together. No matter how harmless Joff looked, he had others to carry out his bullying. "Your Grace." She fell to her knees."You are unwell?"

"Kneeling won't save you now," the king said, soup dribbling down his chin into the frothy neck of his bed gown. His nose was red and blotchy and his voice nasal. "I am well enough. Just a cold that should be gone in a few days. Stand up. You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons."

"Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part. You know that, I beg you, please-"

"Get her up!"

The Hound pulled her to her feet, not ungently. His hands felt impossibly hot against her clammy skin.

"Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell upon Ser Stafford Lannister with an army of wargs, not three days ride from Lannisport. Thousands of good men were butchered as they slept, without the chance to lift sword. After the slaughter, the northmen feasted on the flesh of the slain."

Horror coiled cold hands around Sansa's throat.

"You have nothing to say?" asked Joffrey. His worm lips drew down in a sneer and he jabbed his spoon at her, sending drops of soup flying into her face. "You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten how your monster savaged me."

"That was Arya's wolf," she said, resisting the urge to wipe her face. "Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway."

"No, your father did," Joff said, "but I killed your father. I wish I'd done it myself. I killed a man who was bigger than your father. They came to the gate shouting my name and calling for bread like I was some baker, but I taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the throat."

"And he died?" she said.

The Hound jabbed her hard in the back. To keep her from saying something stupider, she surmised.

"Of course he died," Joffrey said. "He had my quarrel in his throat. You really are stupid, aren't you. There was a woman throwing rocks, I got her as well, but only in the arm." He frowned. "I'd shoot you too, but if I do Mother says they'd kill my uncle Jaime. Instead you'll just be punished and we'll send word to your brother about what will happen to you if he doesn't yield. Dog, rape her."

Sansa blinked at him, her heart seeming to slow down in her chest.

"Well," the King said. "Get to it, Dog!"

The Hound cleared his throat. "Your grace," he began. "This might not be a good idea. I could get her with child."

"No you won't. I know all about moon tea. Get the maester to brew her some later. And don't you tell me what is or isn't a good idea. I am your king! You will do as I say."

The Hound looked Sansa up and down, considering. "Here, your grace?"

The King opened his mouth to speak but sneezed instead. He sneezed three more times before replying. "Yes, here." He waved vaguely towards the rug on the floor.

The Hound did not seem impressed. "They may call me the Hound, but I am a man. I require a bed."

"Well you aren't using mine!" The king looked scandalized. "Take her to the chamber across the hall. And I want to hear her scream."

The Hound grabbed her arm and began to drag her away. Sansa snapped. "No, your grace," she said, he voice shrill. "Please, I beg you! Joffrey please. I'll be good. Joffrey-" She fell to her knees but the Hound lifted her easily and carried away. Sansa sobbed as she saw the King's grinning face disappear to her view.

The Hound dumped her unceremoniously on the bed and went back to bar the doors. He turned to look at her, his face oddly blank.

Sansa shifted away to the other side of the bed. "Please, ser. Please don't do this. I'll give you anything you want."

He slowly undid his sword belt and placed his sword and scabbard on the table by the door. "You have only one thing I want, little bird. And that is what you are asking me not to take." He walked towards her. "And I am no ser," he added, almost as an afterthought.

He sat on the bed and reached for her, dragging her towards him.

"No!" she screamed, clawing at his arm, his face, any skin she could reach. Still he overpowered her and threw her across his legs. He held her still with one hand and drew her skirt up and smallclothes down with the other. Before she could think a hard stinging slap landed across her backside, causing her to hiss in pain.

She strained her neck to look up at him, confused.

His face was contorted in a grimace. "Scream, damn you," he rasped. He hit her again, harder than before.

This time she did scream. And again when he hit her. And again. She sobbed as well. Sansa knew the tears running down her cheeks were from a mixture of relief and indignity. He's _spanking _me, she thought. And there was pain, or course. The Hound seemed to put everything into the slaps.

It seemed to go on forever but must have been only a dozen or so hits. When he was done the Hound gently drew her smallclothes over her abused flesh and lowered her dress. Then he sat her on the bed and stood up.

Sansa swiped at the tears on her hot cheeks and looked up at him. "Oh!" she said. "You're bleeding!" His hair was clumped together where she had pulled at it and she had scratched up the good side of his face.

He reached up to touch a scratch and winced. "You put up a better fight than I expected," he said, his voice strangely admiring.

His smirk made his mouth twitch. But his grey eyes were twinkling and she wasn't frightened anymore. She squeezed her legs together.

"Look what you've done, little bird," he chided, his hand smoothing down his hair. "How ungallant of you. You've scarred me for life." 


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Starts off with Tyrion's POV

**Chapter 2**

"Mother, you can't let him yell at me," Joffrey whined. "I am king now!"

"Mind your tongue, Imp," Cersei said. "Or I'll have it ripped out." Cersei was looking down her nose at him as was her custom.

_Good to see you too, sweet sister._ "And make it a present to our dear father?" Tyrion took another sip of wine. "I am not sure he would be pleased with it." Tyrion turned to look at the Hound as he stood behind the king's chair. His face was impassive, bored even, as if they hadn't been discussing his brutality just now. There were three deep scratches healing on his face.

_They say the girl's screams had reverberated throughout the castle. I leave them alone for one day and this is what happens._

"All I am saying, sister, is that his Royal Highness has made a massive blunder. Not only has he endangered Jamie's life, he has thrown away the heir to Winterfell. This isn't Casterly Rock where he could have made his loyal Dog a sweet gift of his betrothed's maidenhead and gotten away with it. This is King's Landing. As soon as the High Septon hears of this he will ride over as fast as his poor horses can carry his holy bulk."

He watched as the blood drained from Cersei's face.

Joffrey frowned. "I don't understand. Why would the High Septon come here? Does he want more money?"

Cersei looked at her eldest born as if he had dozen slugs crawling out his mouth. "No, Joffrey," she said slowly. "The High Septon will see to it that the Hound marries Sansa."

Tyrion poured more wine into his cup and watched the Hound. He was standing as still and silent as ever, but now and then his ruined mouth would twitch. Tyrion imagined that mouth on Sansa Stark's pretty pale flesh. He would have shuddered if he hadn't become so immune to the grotesque over the years. Chiefly by peering into the mirror every morning.

"Well it makes no difference," Joffrey said, his full lips set in a petulant pout. "The Hound will marry her and the Hound is loyal to me. Aren't you, Dog? I will still have Winterfell. I didn't want to marry her anyway but mother said I had to."

Tyrion considered this. The Cleganes had been loyal subjects of the Lannisters as far back as anyone could remember. No reason Sandor Clegane should be any different.

"Yes," Cersei said, quick to jump on board. _Anything to not have to admit her darling is a thoughtless monster._ "This could indeed be a blessing. I was never happy with the match to begin with. It was Robert's idea. Joffrey can marry into money like I had planned."

"So it is settled." Joffrey clapped his hands together. "Boy, bring me more wine. And Hound, go tell your betrothed the good news."

"As you wish, your grace," the Hound rasped. His bow was surprisingly elegant for such a large man. But as he lifted his head Tyrion thought he saw a decidedly threatening sneer on his face before it was gone.

_Directed at Joffery? Surely not._

***

There was a knock on the door and Sansa pricked her finger. She watched as the blood welled into a fat droplet and fell to the floor. She put her needlework aside. "Come," she said.

It was the Hound, and he seemed to be as angry as she had ever seen him. His eyebrows were drawn together and his mouth was twisted in a scowl. She was taken aback, but somehow it was difficult to truly fear him when her scratches were still half healed on his face.

Her fine eyebrows drew together in worry. _I really hope I haven't scarred him for life._

The Hound was just standing there, saying nothing. He shifted from one foot to another and looked around.

"Does Joff want me?" she finally asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The Hound heard her anyway. "No, he doesn't," he said, his voice rough. "He never did, not really. That has always been your problem, little bird." He noticed the doll Joffrey had given her on her side table. "A cheap porcelain doll, to break and discard. That is what you are to him."

Sansa looked down at her clasped hands. She knew this, of course. But to hear him say it out loud was something else.

She heard the Hound's footsteps bring him closer to her chair. "You are bleeding again," he rasped, picking up her hand.

"I just pricked my finger. It is nothing."

He dropped her hand into her lap. "The King has decided I must marry."

She looked up at him. "Congratulations, my lord. I am sure you will make a fine husband."

The Hound snorted and sat back on her bed. "Always courteous, aren't you, little bird? For once in your life say what you mean. You are sorry for the poor wench who will have to warm my bed. Well, feel sorry for yourself. I have taken your maidenhead, so it is you I must marry. Or so the High Septon will decree whenever he gets his fat arse here."

She sputtered. "But I... But you didn't! We could tell them. We could tell the High Septon that you just..."

He laughed. "Stupid little bird. I suppose we could tell him. The High Septon will have some withered old septa shove a finger inside you and proclaim you a maiden. And then the king will display my head beside your father's for disobeying him and you will be queen after all. Is that what you want?"

Sansa looked at his face, forcing herself to take in the burned side as well as the scratched. The rage had left him for now and the gray eyes regarding her were calm, almost sleepy. Despite what he said, despite what the others thought of him, he was the truest knight in this place.

"I will marry you," she said, her voice steady even as her body trembled.

"You would throw aside fine Joffrey for me?" he drawled. "I am blessed."

***

His betrothed stood before him, her eyes fixed to his chest. The septon was blathering on about love and the gods but he was barely paying attention. He was watching the light illuminate the little bird's hair, and thinking it looked like fire.

He took a moment to look around, at the smug faces of the King and the King's mother, and at the oddly pensive one of the Imp. Others were there as well, such as Varys and the measter. Littlefinger's face was twisted and puckered as if some foul odor was emanating from the dais.

Sandor snorted, causing the little bird to peer up at him. Brilliant blue eyes, shining like gems in a perfect face. He felt something twist inside him. Simple she may be, but she was undeniably beautiful.

_The smell isn't coming from me_, he assured her silently. _I have been bathed and perfumed and dressed in my finest. So that I may not offend your sweet sensibilities._

He must not be a good telepathic communicator because she frowned in confusion before fixing her eyes to his chest again.

And now his squire was walking towards him with a neatly folded yellow cloak. It was of the finest wool that could be bought, and lined with silk. Sandor's hands felt clumsy as he reached out to untie her gray maiden cloak. Her fingers brushed his as she helped him take it off. Shaking out the yellow cloak, he drew it around her thin shoulders. He stood back to examine his new bride, and marveled at how this had come to be.

The wedding feast was a subdued affair. Only the King and Queen seemed to be truly celebrating. The little bird seated to his left was cutting up her food into smaller and smaller pieces without eating a single bite. The Imp seemed to be drinking as much wine as Sandor was.

"Answer me when I address you, Hound!" the King said loudly, his voice slurred.

Sandor sat up straight and felt his head throb. He was surely not drunk yet. He'd had only, what, two or three flagons of wine? "I am sorry your highness. I did not hear you."

"Hm. I was saying I would like to sample your bride one of these days."

His little bride had gone still beside him, her knife hovering over her plate. He cleared his throat, looking for the words to say to appease his king. But his mind had gone blank.

"Well, what say you to that, Dog?" Joffrey continued. "Will you deny your king?"

"Surely your highness would not touch a dog's leavings," the Imp said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Joffrey giggled, sounding like a little girl. Usually he tried to affect the booming laughter of his sire, Robert Baratheon. _The wine is strong today_, thought Sandor.

"You are right, of course, good uncle. I would never touch something so used." He clapped his hands together, a look of unholy glee taking over his face. "Come, Hound, it is time for your bedding!"

Suddenly it seemed everyone at the feast had woken up. There was laughter and cheers and bawdy songs. Some women approached him, to help him undress he surmised, but he scowled at them and they let him be. But the men were carrying his bride away and he could do little but follow them to her bedchamber.

When he got there his bride was standing beside her bed trying to cover her nakedness with her hands, and the men were leaving. One gave him a hearty slap on his back, knocking the breath out of him. He turned to glare at the man but he was already gone, and the door was shut.

There was silence all around them now, and in it he could hear the chattering of the little bird's teeth. He strode over to the wardrobe and rummaged for a while. He found a nightgown, soft and worn from multiple washings. He tossed it to her.

With his back to her he started undressing.

"Thank you, my lord," he heard her tremulous whisper. The rustle of fabric could only mean she was dressing herself.

He grumbled in reply, struggling to pull the mail over his head. Where had his squire run off to again?

He dropped his inner tunic atop the pile on the floor and kicked off a boot. He reached for the laces on his breeches but his stomach suddenly lurched and the world seemed to be rocking around him. He trudged over to the bed and fell on top of the covers.

His little bird was blinking down at him with wide blue eyes. He raised a hand to touch the soft auburn hair floating to her waist, but she was out of his reach. "You can sleep on the left side," he said to her kindly before darkness took him.

***

Sansa stared down at her new husband and pursed her lips. This was not how she had imagined her first night with the Hound. She had been preparing herself for all sorts of horrible things. The fact that he snored was not one of them.

And he was too large for her bed. One of his feet was hanging off the footboard and the other was on the floor, with its shoe still on.

She found his cloak from among the pile of clothes on the floor. She walked closer to him, almost tiptoeing, and looked at his bare chest. He was heavily muscled, and somewhat hairy. She had never seen a grown man shirtless before and found her eyes following the trail of hair that disappeared into his breeches. He sighed in his sleep and she jumped, quickly covering him with the cloak. She stepped back to look at her handiwork and grimaced. In her haste she had covered his face as well. She considered rearranging the cloak to let him breathe better but thought better of the idea. Blowing out the candles, she curled as far away from him as she could on the bed, and closed her eyes.

In the morning, he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sansa frowned at her needlework. The vicious wolf she had been embroidering somehow had a friendly tongue lolling out of his mouth and looked more like a dog. She tossed it aside and massaged her neck.

Except for the fact that Joffrey wasn't troubling her anymore, Sansa was finding married life not much different to unmarried life. She spent much of her days with Cercei's ladies. They would work on embroidering, knitting, or sewing while they gossiped about this handsome knight or that wealthy lord. She would rather they work in silence. What use handsome knights and wealthy lords when all they seemed to be interesting in nowadays was hunting for and trading wolf pelts?

Most of the time she pasted a false smile on her lips and let her thoughts wander. She took the time to think about her brothers, even Jon, and her mother. She wondered about Arya and if she was alive and safe. She thought about the warm stone walls of Winterfell, of how she couldn't wait to leave and what she wouldn't give to return there now.

She barely saw her husband. He spent his days trailing after the King and addressing his many whims. She saw him without fail during meals, but even then he would be standing guard behind the king. Sometimes he would watch her as she ate, which always made her nervous, causing her hands to shake and killing here appetite. She couldn't understand why. He was just the Hound, no more frightening nor uglier than before their marriage. Well, maybe slightly uglier because the three scratches on his face had yet to fade. But he wasn't half as cruel as he used to be towards her. Once he even asked her if she wanted to go riding with him. She had declined politely as she was an indifferent horsewoman. This had made him scowl.

"Scared of horses, are you?" he said. "Is there anything that doesn't frighten you?" He had stalked off at that, leaving her writhing in embarrassment as Cercei's ladies tittered.

It seemed to her the Hound was not as pleased with his bride as he ought to be. She may be the heir to Winterfell and an important hostage, but as far as the Hound was concerned she was just a "stupid little bird." He seemed to have little patience with her. Most telling of his dissatisfaction was that their wedding night was the first and last time he had shared her bed. She had a vague notion of where his rooms were located but couldn't be sure.

_Why am I thinking about his room_s, she thought, frowning. She reached for the embroidery again. _He can stay there and leave me in peace as far as I'm concerned. He snores like a bear anyway._

Sansa stared down at her needlework and wondered how best to go about fixing it.

"Oh that is very pretty," Lady Tanda said over her shoulder. "Very nice detail. Are you going to make two more dogs?"

Sansa was saved from making a disgraceful scene by the knock on the door. A boy walked in. He was around Arya's age, had gray eyes like Arya's, but his hair was a shocking orange. He was the Hound's elusive squire.

"What is is, Tommy," she finally asked him when he seemed lulled into silence by all the feminine beauty around him.

"My lady," he bowed low to Sansa, almost touching his nose to his knees. Tommy was very acrobatic and would sometimes tumble to amuse her. She was growing fond of him. "Lord Tyrion thought you might like to visit the training grounds today," he continued. "My lord the Hound is training."

Sansa stood up and stretched. Any change in her daily routine was a blessing. "Lead the way, Tommy."

"He'd already defeated eight men when I was there," Tommy was telling her proudly as they walked. "There is quite an audience gathered now, some even making wagers on how many more he will defeat."

Sansa frowned. "And why is he fighting all these men? I thought he was training."

"Training, fighting, it's all the same to the Hound. He likes to keep himself battle ready, he does."

As they drew near the training ground the sound of steel hitting steel became apparent. She reached out a hand to smooth her hair and looked to the side. A canopy was set up and she could make out two bright Lannister heads among several others. She felt her spirits plummet. Joffrey was there too.

Tyrion Lannister beckoned to her. "Ah, Lady Sansa, come have a seat. I though you might want to see this. You husband is proving himself the finest knight in Kings Landing yet again."

"He is no knight," she said automatically, her eyes on the two fighting men.

"True enough," Joffery sniggered. "And you are wrong, uncle. My dog is the best fighter in all seven kingdoms. I say he will defeat two dozen men today."

Tyrion tsked. "He is a man like any other," he said. "Look, even now he begins to weary. Two more and he will lay down his sword."

Sansa looked at the Hound. He was wearing full armor, including his dog's head helm. His sword landed blow after blow against his opponent, finally causing the poor man to drop to his knees in surrender. The Hound did not seem particularly wearied to her.

Sansa felt someone watching her and turned to meet Tyrion's mismatched eyes. "Is married life treating you well, Lady Sansa?" he asked.

He had spoken in a low voice, and Sansa found herself whispering back in kind. "Very well, thank you. I have no complaints."

Tyrion's eyes searched her face, causing her to fidget. "You really mean that, don't you? How curious. Especially after what the Hound did to you."

Sansa thought carefully about how to answer. There was still no way to clear the Hound's name while maintaining their lie. And she had learned to be suspicious of Lannisters. "He did as King Joffrey commanded," she finally said.

Tyrion laughed. "Of course, Joffrey's loyal dog. Here he comes now. Exactly thirteen opponents defeated, just like I said. Come on, Joffrey! Time to pay up."

***

Sweat ran down his face as he swung his great sword into the scabbard at his back. He took his helm off and moved the damp hair out of his eyes. Tommy was nowhere to be seen, nothing new, but Sandor did notice the little bird sitting with a group of men under a canopy. He scowled, making his way over to her.

"What is everyone doing here," he asked no one in particular, though his eyes were on her. She was a vision in yellow silk, in one of the dozen or so dresses he had commissioned for her. The only instruction he had been specific about was a modest neckline. The way the little bird had been flashing her teats around in her older gowns was indecent.

"Oh nothing really," the Imp replied. "Just enjoying the fine weather. Hound, you must congratulate me. My good nephew has decided to gift me his new destier."

"Why?" Sandor asked, taking the empty seat next to the little bird. A valid question since Joffrey was positively seething.

"No reason, I am sure. Other than that I am his uncle and he loves me." The Imp grinned at Sandor as if they were sharing a wonderful joke together. Sandor just raised his eyebrow.

"You fought very well, Hound," the Imp continued. "My nephew thinks you the greatest warrior in all his kingdoms."

He snorted. "My brother could defeat me."

"No," he heard her chirp. He had forgotten for a moment she was sitting there, beside him. He shouldn't have though. The air always smelled sweeter when she was around. "I saw you fight him at the tourney. I am sure you could best him."

"What do you know about fighting, little bird?" He wanted to say more but he was distracted by her trying to lift his left hand up. He let her take it, and she wrapped a beautifully embroidered handkerchief around the shallow cut on his palm. She tied the ends together and smiled, as if satisfied with her handiwork. She brought her eyes to his face, looking for approval.

His heart thudded, and he was sure every man under the canopy could hear it. A furtive glance told him they were all staring at him, their conversations wavering. He ripped his hand from her grasp. "Why would you waste something so beautiful on me?" he asked, his voice harsh.

_Ah_, he thought, watching her mouth. _So quickly pretty smiles turn into pretty pouts_.

He deliberately turned his attention to Joffrey. And just in time.

"Ser Jeremy writes that his woods are overrun with wolves and trouts," some knight was saying to the King. "He can offer us no help."

At this Joffrey's head swiveled slowly to the only wolf present, and his brilliant green eyes narrowed.

Sandor stood, dragging Sansa up with him. "You will have to excuse me, my lords. The blood lust is still on me and I will go enjoy my wife for a while."

The laughter of the men and the look of dismay on his little bird's face pleased Joffrey, and he grinned. "You do that, Dog. Don't be too long though. We have matters of state to discuss."

She was practically running to keep up with his pace and he slowed down. "You fought very well, my... husband."

_My husband_. He laughed. The little bird was always at a loss when figuring out how to address him.

"But not gallantly?" he mocked, looking down at her.

She seemed to think about it for a moment. "No, not gallantly. There is nothing gallant about war and violence. I understand that now."

"Good," he simply said. He was content to walk the rest of the way to her rooms in silence, watching her. Her gleaming auburn hair was no longer styled as the ladies of the South wore it, but was allowed to fall to her waist in loose waves. It suited her, made her look _almost _wild.

But the little bird had something to say. "My... husband. I have been thinking about the offer you made me. About going riding. I rarely get to spent time with you and I would like to. So whenever you have the time..." She trailed off.

For some reason this little speech and her tremulous smile irritated him. "I didn't ask you to go riding to spend time with you. I thought you might enjoy some time outdoors. I don't know how you women stay cooped inside doing needlework all day. And enough with the 'my husband's. There is no one here to hear you."

She was silent until they they stood outside her door. She turned to look up at him then. "But you are my husband," she stated.

He snorted. "Did you truly believe that, little bird? We both know this marriage is a farce. And as soon as your situation is settled this farce can be annulled. I have no intention of catering to the whims of a fine lady for the rest of my days." She looked wounded. So wounded that the beast inside him wanted to wound her some more. He reached out to touch the little sleeve of her pretty yellow dress. "A fine lady's cunt is just as tight as a whore's. And whores are cheaper."

She was quiet for a while, her face pale. "I am sorry... Hound. I did not know that was your intention. Thank you for walking me to my rooms."

He grabbed her arm before she could disappear behind the door. "You need to stay away from Joffrey," he rasped. "I keep him as busy as I can and he cares little enough about you to forget when you aren't around. Sometimes he leaves the punishment up to me." He let go of her arm, looking at the marks he left on her pale flesh. "But if you are around and I am not... Fuck, even if I am around, I might not be able to save you again."

She had a strange look on her face now. As if her stomach was troubling her. A small hand haltingly reached for his face, for the left side. Her thumb brushed against his cheek, as if trying to rub away the scratch marks she had left there. But the scratch marks remained, as did the burns causing his mouth to twitch, and she gave up too soon and turned away.

He stood for a long while staring at her door. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Tyrion sat behind his desk and shivered. Pod had let the fire go out again, and for some reason the Tower of the Hand was always icy cold. _Probably haunted by the headless ghosts of Hands past_. He looked up, _too far up_ he thought as his neck strained, at the man standing before him and thought how best to phrase his words. What he was about to say was going to sound more than a little ridiculous, and the Hound might just throw his head back and laugh at him.

"You love your wife," he finally stated.

The Hound continued looking at him as if he hadn't spoken. _Well, at least he didn't laugh. That's a start._

Tyrion had been watching the Hound with his "little bird" for weeks now and this was the conclusion he had come to. The Hound couldn't keep his eyes off her, and there was a gruff gentleness about him as he dealt with her. It was difficult to believe, but beautiful women had been known to bring down fiercer men. Many knew of the tale of Ser Jorah Mormont and the lady he won at the tourney, and how she had led to his exile. Or the real life "bear and the maiden fair" as some liked to call that tale.

"Do you have nothing to say to this?" Tyrion quipped. "It is a horrible accusation, I know. Surely you have something to say to clear your name."

The Hound seemed to consider for a while. "I love my horse," he rasped. "And to a much lesser extent my squire."

Tyrion tsked. "Speaking of your lady wife and your horse in the same context? You really are a brute."

The Hound scowled. "Tell me what you want, Imp, so I can be on my way."

Tyrion picked up the piece of parchment on the table. His hand trembled only a little as he handed it to the Hound. "I assume you can read?"

The Hound's eyes roamed the parchment. Judging from the rate his ruddy complexion paled Tyrion knew his conclusion had been justified. The Hound handed back the parchment, but kept his silence.

"With Jamie de-," Tyrion began, but his voice croaked at the word. He cleared his throat and tried again. "With my brother dead, your wife is no longer safe here. You need to get her away from here. I'll give you one day to get her as far as possible. After that I will have to bring my sister this raven."

The Hound was still standing there. _Run_, Tyrion wanted to tell him, scream at him_. Take the wife you won't admit you love and run from here. Cersei's rage will break her and make her beg for death._

"Where do you want me to take her?" the Hound asked.

Tyrion had to laugh at this. "Ah, always the loyal Lannister dog, weren't you? Well, Sandor Clegane, I release you from your doggly duties. Take her as far as you can as fast as you can. Best you not tell me where."

***

He had a pretty good idea where his little bird would be at this time. She would be in her room, sitting by the window, taking advantage of the last light of the day to stitch pretty patterns on scraps of silk or linen. He had one such scrap tucked neatly into a pocket under his mail. His blood had ruined it beyond repair, so he doubted she would want it back.

He usually knocked on her door and waited for her to call him in. But today he simply turned the handle and walked in. She took a moment to tuck her needle into the cloth before standing to face him. "Hound," she said, her little chin lifting in the air.

For weeks there had been no "ser"s, no "my lord"s or "my husband"s. At another time he would have laughed at this show of defiance. She looked about as threatening as a newborn kitten. No, a newly hatched chick, as even newborn kittens had sharp claws. But his derisive laughter would have crushed her as it always did and she would need her spine rigid today.

"Pack your bags, little bird," he said. "We're going riding."

She looked nervous all of a sudden. "At this time? It will be dark soon."

He snorted. "Aye, and you are scared of the dark. And of horses, spiders, rats, wolves-"

"I am not scared of wolves," she said indignantly.

"That well behaved pet you had was barely a wolf. When you see them wild and running in packs, you will do well to fear them. But enough of this. Pack a dress or two. Warm dresses, nothing too bright or fine. And any small items you won't part with. Tommy will meet us beyond the gates with supplies. Meet me at the stables in half an hour and don't be late." He turned to leave.

"Hound," she called out. He turned to look at her. She had her chin in the air again, and the light of the sun was bright in her hair. "Aren't you going to tell me why?" she asked.

He drew a knife out of his belt and advanced towards her, causing her to take a few steps back. When he was close enough he put a hand in her hair and drew her close. "We'll need to cut this off," he mumbled. Her hair was impossibly soft, and smelled like sweet things. Like flowers and maybe vanilla. He tightened his grip and pulled her head back, exposing her neck. She was breathing heavy and her eyes were closed, her eyelids trembling. He brought a hand to her face, brushing his thumb across a fine cheekbone. When he touched her lips she parted them with a sigh.

He let her go and put his knife back in its scabbard. "Tie up you hair," he said, his hands almost itching to touch her again. If he wasn't careful the feel of her hair, her skin, could become an addiction. "The Kingslayer is dead," he added, answering the question she had asked.

She brought a hand to her mouth and looked like she was about to loose her lunch. Good. It meant she understood the gravity of the situation.

"Half an hour," he rasped before leaving.

***

Sansa nearly ran back to her room when she saw the massive black warhorse the Hound was tending to. But then the Hound had already seen her. "You're late," he said.

Sansa said nothing but continued to eye the horse warily.

"Stranger is mine," he told her, taking her bag from her hands. "That brown one is yours. I hope you know something about riding."

"I do," she said. "I just don't like horses very much. One bit my maid once and she nearly lost a finger."

"You'll loose more than a finger if you go anywhere near Stranger's mouth. Just stay away from him."

_You didn't have to tell me that_, she thought fervently.

When he was done tying her bag to Stranger's saddle he approached her, lifting her as easily as he would a down stuffed pillow and placing her in her saddle.

They trotted leisurely towards the gates. Sansa had to stop herself from looking back every few minutes to make sure no one was following them. She wanted to make her horse go as fast as it could but realized that would draw attention.

Her heart thudded in suspense as she watched the Hound talk to the soldiers at the gates.

"You really wrenched my shoulder badly at training," a jolly fat man with an impressive yellow mustache was complaining.

The Hound eyed the man sourly. "Loose some weight before you challenge me again. You're an embarrassment. Open the gates. My wife and I are going for a ride."

The man leered at Sansa. "Fancy little thing you got there, you lucky dog. But then being the King's favorite should have its perks. What's in the bag though?"

"A blanket and a picnic. I want to fuck my wife in nature and eat a sandwich after. What's it to you?"

"All right all right. I was just curious. And you shouldn't speak like that before a lady," he chided. He signaled for the gates to be opened. "Very nice to meet you, Lady Clegane. If you have a sister perhaps you will put in a kind word for your husband's good friend?"

The Hound snorted, rearing his horse onwards. "Bugger that. You're no friend of mine."

As they rode away Sansa imagined Arya with the fat man and had to giggle.

They found Tommy asleep in a clearing with several bags laid out around him. His white horse was grazing on a patch of dry grass.

The Hound walked over to Tommy and gave him a kick. "Get up, you idiot," he said. "By the Stranger I didn't know anyone could sleep as much as you do."

"I just shut my eyes for a minute!" Tommy whined. He yawned mightily and gave Sansa a lopsided grin before helping the Hound distribute the bags of supplies between their horses.

They rode in silence for a while, the setting sun turning the sky red above them. Tommy rode beside her with the Hound several paces ahead.

"This isn't the King's Road," Sansa said to Tommy.

Tommy nodded. "This is the Gold Road," he said.

Sansa blinked. She knew little enough about maps but that couldn't be right. "Isn't this the road that leads directly to Casterly Rock?"

This time the Hound answered. "Aye. We'll follow it until we reach Blackwater Rush. Then we'll head northwest to Riverrun." He turned back to look at her reaction. "That does not please you? "

"I thought we would be going to Winterfell," she confessed.

"It would take us a month to get to Winterfell, and only a week to Riverrun. Plus I don't fancy freezing my balls off again up North. You'll have to get your brother or uncle to take you back to your cold, dreary nest." He looked at her again. "I thought you would be pleased to see your mother at least."

"It will please me. Thank you, Hound." Sansa tried to imagine what it would be like to meet her mother again, to be embraced by her, but it had been too long. And somehow the longing she was feeling for Winterfell, for home, was so strong it was twisting her insides.

The night darkened around them and brought with it shadows. Sansa thought she saw eyes watching them from the woods around the road. She made her horse trot as close to the Hound as possible without bumping into his horse. She offered him a smile when he looked at her, but he said nothing.

The gentle trot-trot-trot of the three horses soothed her mind. And it seemed they were riding for hours and hours. Sansa lost track of time and suddenly the Hound was shaking her awake.

"If you fall off your horse I'll just leave you behind," he rasped.

Sansa huffed and sat up straighter.

"Stay awake a little longer," he said. "I know a cave where we can shelter."

It took them about an hour to reach the cave and by then Sansa was really struggling to stay awake. It didn't help that Tommy would yawn loudly every few minutes.

The Hound got off his horse easily and started rummaging through the bags. Tommy slid off his saddle and looked ready to fall asleep right there where his horse could trample him. But he managed to grab a bedroll and drag it away into the darkness of the cave.

Sansa waited for the Hound to help her off her horse for a few moments, but he had apparently forgotten her and was talking to and brushing his monstrous horse. She sniffed and started to slide off like she had seen Tommy do but somehow her legs felt like jelly and the ground too far away. She ending up in an undignified position with one leg caught in the stirrup and the other across the horse as she clung to the saddle with her arms. She heard the Hound laugh before feeling his arm around her waist, lifting her to the ground. When she seemed unable to stand he carried her into the cave and gently placed her on a boulder.

Moonlight was streaming into the cave and the Hound eyed Tommy's sleeping form sourly for a moment before heading out again. When he returned he dumped bedrolls and few bags on the ground. He nudged Tommy awake with his boot. "Eat before sleeping," he said. He rummaged in one bag and brought out two apples. Biting into one he tossed the other towards her. She fumbled to catch it but it just bounced off her chest and rolled away into the darkness. He made a strange noise at that, almost as if he was about to choke on his apple. She narrowed her eyes and was very close to pouting.

"Do you need help?" she called out before he left.

"Do you know how to make a fire? Tend to horses?" he asked.

"No," she said slowly.

"Then just sit there and look pretty."

This time she did pout.

Sansa sat close to the fire and watched the Hound's face as she struggled to chew the strip of dried beef in her hand. She placed the last bit of beef in her mouth and wiped her hand against her dress. Then she knelt beside her bedroll and brought her hands together, closing her eyes.

"What are you doing?" asked the Hound.

"Praying," she said, casting him a furtive glance. The fire did nothing to make him look cheery. Rather it cast the angles of his face in sharp relief and made him look harsher than ever.

"You really think the gods are listening to you?" He was sneering now, and his voice was hard. "You think they have nothing better to do?"

"I don't know," she said, honestly.

He snorted and lay down on his bedroll, turning his back to her.

Like every night she prayed for her mother, her brothers, and her sister. She prayed for her father's shade, for it to find it's way back to Winterfell. She prayed for Tommy and the Hound as well, prayed that they made it through this journey safely. She didn't know how long she prayed, but the Hound was making soft noises in his sleep now. She considered him for a while and decided to pray for herself too. She asked that he like her, just a little.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Tyrion's head was pounding. Too much wine over the past couple of days and too little sleep would do that to a man. Moreover, as people were always telling him, he was just half a man.

Joffrey was still in a dark mood. He seemed to be taking the Hound's desertion rather hard, more so than Jamie's death. Tyrion wondered if Robert Baratheon's neglect had led his nephew to look up to the Hound as a father figure. If that was so he had only acquired the Hound's ruthlessness, and left out the bravery and loyalty.

Cersie's eyes were like two dark bruises in a face so pale it had a greenish tinge. And her otherwise lovely mouth seemed to be permanently etched into an ugly scowl. "Did you receive any ravens yet? Have they been found?" she asked.

"No, they haven't been found," he said. "Not yet at least. The Goldcloaks have disbanded into smaller groups of five to ten men and they are fanning out northbound. Father had men dispatched from Casterly Rock as well. It is only a matter of time. Unless..."

"Unless what?" she hissed.

"Unless the Hound was able to charter a ship. It is really difficult to know his mind. The fact is he can go anywhere he wants. He is a rich man, as you know. The Hand's tourney was not the first tourney he had the honor of winning."

"Yes, yes," she said. "I know what a great fighter he is. Are you trying to make me feel worse?" She leaned back and pressed a hand to her forehead. "I don't understand what he was thinking, what he hopes to gain. He thinks the northerners will reward him for raping and corrupting that Stark child?"

"I believe it is love," he said simply. "I wouldn't be too surprised if he takes Sansa away to a free city and sets her up in a palace of her own."

Joffrey laughed, and Tyrion thought it sounded rather like the Hound's barking laughter. "I didn't know you were such a romantic, uncle. The Hound does not love. And if he did it wouldn't be that stupid girl."

Tyrion gave a shallow bow. "I am sure you are right. You've known them longer than I have, after all."

"Yes," Joffrey said, sneering. "And I hope you have made it known that I want the Hound alive. They can bring me Sansa Stark's head, but the Hound has to answer for his desertion before I grant him death."

***

Sandor knew that the inn they were approaching was a hovel, but he didn't care. There was lightening streaking the sky and any shelter would be a blessing right now. And the smoke coming out of the squat little chimney was saying it would be warm inside.

His little bird seemed excited. She gathered her reigns and gave her horse a little kick. "Race you!" she yelled to Tommy as she sped by.

Tommy got to the inn a few moments after she did with Sandor several paces behind. "No fair," Tommy said, wrinkling his snub nose. "You started before me."

Sansa just stuck her tongue out at him and laughed.

She had laughed more in the two days they had been on the road than he had heard her in two years at Kings Landing. It was strange watching the two children (because a child is what she was despite his body's reaction to her) giggle together and play their little games. He generally stood away from them and watched them, feeling ancient.

A stablehand came over to lead their horses away. Sandor reached into the purse at his belt and drew out a few coppers, handing them to Sansa. "Go get some food," he said. "I'll have to tend Stranger myself."

A blast of warmth hit him when he opened the inn door. It was bright and cheery in there, and every table seemed occupied by laughing men and women. Looking at them one could imagine the world was not at war, and that winter was not coming. He made his way to the table where she and Tommy were sitting. They were already tucking in bowls of steaming stew and fresh baked bread. There was a bowl waiting for him too.

Sandor ate while looking around, trying to catch the innkeeper's eye. The man finally noticed and made his way to their table. "Ale for them and wine for me," Sandor said, laying a few coppers on the table.

The innkeeper scooped the coppers up. "Will you be staying the night, milord?"

"Aye," Sandor said. "One room for me and the boy and one for my..." He looked at her. He had meant to say "sister" but he had a sister once, and the things he felt for his little bird were far from brotherly.

"His wife," she said politely. Probably to fill the silence and keep him from sounding like a fool.

"Hm," the innkeeper said doubtfully, looking at her and then back at Sandor. "Well the inn is crowded, what with the thunderstorm and all. I can only give you one room. The boy can sleep in my son's room and you and your... _wife _will have to share a room."

She blushed at that and looked down at her bowl. Tommy grinned, his mouth full of bread, and waggled his eyebrows.

Sandor sighed and sat back. He would have to drink a lot more than he had intended tonight.

***

Sansa twisted and turned and tried to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. The Hound was already asleep with his back to her, his soft huffing snores breaking the silence of the night. It wasn't a terrible sound, she realized. It reminded her of when Lady used to share her bed back in Winterfell.

She punched her pillow a few times and squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the gentle patter of the rain hitting the roof, begging it to lull her to sleep. It was no use. "Ugh," she said, sitting up. She chewed on her bottom lip and stared at the Hound. There was a fire in the grate and she could she his large body move gently with his breathing.

"Hound," she whispered.

He didn't stir.

"Hound," she said.

He snored louder.

"Hound!" she half yelled, poking him in the back.

"Seven buggering hells!" he rasped, turning to face her. "Why are you yelling? What do you want?"

"I couldn't sleep," she said meekly.

"And so you decided to wake me to tell me that?" He pressed a steadying hand to his head and winced. "Do you want to throw a cloak over my face? Would that help you sleep?"

She blinked at him. "What?" she asked.

He laughed, but it was not a pleased sound. "On our wedding night you threw a cloak over my ugly face. I woke thinking you were smothering me to death with a pillow."

She sputtered. "I would never! You were without a nightshirt and I didn't want you to catch a chill."

"My sweet, considerate wife," he said in a mocking tone. "I never wear a nightshirt and I have yet to catch a chill in all my years."

Sansa cast a furtive glance to his naked chest before looking at his face. She bit her lip again. "Will you kiss me, Hound?" she whispered quietly.

His eyes glittered in the firelight. "Are you mad, little bird?" he asked pleasantly.

She huffed. "No, I just..." She tried to think of how to phrase this. "My maid told me that when a man kisses a woman it can help her sleep. And if I don't sleep well tonight I'll probably fall off my horse tomorrow." She cast a hurt look at him. "You said you would leave me behind if I fell off my horse."

He considered her for a moment. "Your maid told you this?" She nodded in reply. "Was this the girl you brought from Winterfell?" She nodded again. "Strange," he said. "She didn't look like a fool."

He sat up and looked down at her. "You really believe if I kiss you it will magically put you to sleep? Wasn't there a song like this? The handsome knight kisses the sleeping maid and breaks the wildling's curse on the seven kingdoms?" He laughed. "Since I am neither handsome nor a knight I suppose the opposite can be expected."

"Well," Sansa said doubtfully, thinking the theory over.

"Stupid little bird," he said. "A sharp blow to the head would more likely help you sleep. But no harm in trying your way first." He pressed her back into the bed and covered her mouth with his.

Sansa closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of his lips, trying to memorize it. She wondered when she had stopped fearing his face, and how long she had wanted this kiss. His lips, what remained of them, were a little dry but soft. It was pleasant enough, and she was wondering when she would fall asleep when she felt a warm wetness press against the seam of her lips. She realized it was his tongue and gasped. He took the opportunity to slide his hot tongue into her mouth. His mouth tasted of wine and some other spicy taste, and _heat_. The bare flesh of his chest felt impossibly hot to her searching hands. She slid her hands up and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. When she moved her tongue to slide against his, he groaned.

He was breathing heavily when he pulled back. "Feeling sleepy yet?" he asked, his mouth twisting in a grin.

Sansa had never felt more awake. She shook her head and reached out to gently cup his cheek. The right one.

His grin died on his lips and he leaned into her hand. She could feel the burnt ropy flesh and the twitching of his mouth under her palm. "I think your maid was speaking of another kind of kiss," he said lightly, smoothing the hair away from her face. "The kind in the Bear and the Maiden Fair."

"There's no kiss in that song," she said, her voice sounding strange and hoarse even to her own ears. "There's just a bear licking honey from a maiden's hair."

His eyes roamed her face. "How sweet and innocent are you, little bird? I suppose if I tried to show you what the song means you would faint in my arms. Aye, that could keep you asleep till morning. But I have another way to achieve a similar effect. Perhaps not as shocking." His hand was under the blanket, and it was slowly gathering and pulling up the skirt of her nightdress. "Do you want me to help you sleep, little bird?" he whispered.

She licked her lips in reply and pulled him in for another kiss. He ravaged her mouth for a moment before pulling away. Then he put his hand under her skirts and pulled off her smallclothes. Sansa blushed even as she helped him, and pressed her thighs together.

"Don't," he said, brushing a kiss to her knee.

He lay down close beside her and propped his head up in one hand, looking down at her face. The other hand was making its way up her thigh to her damp curls. He gently pressed his finger to her slick folds and slid it towards the nub between her legs. Sansa gasped and gripped his shoulders tight. He rubbed her lightly, causing her to squirm. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he slid that finger inside her.

"Sandor," she hissed when he started moving the finger in and out, deeper and deeper. His thumb stroked her sensitive nub again and she couldn't help herself. She reached out to grip the hand that was pleasuring her and moaned, grinding her hips into it. She opened her eyes and looked at his face, at his rapt expression, and came with a wondrous gasp. Her body clenched and unclenched itself around his finger and a deep, bone-melting calm settled over her.

He pressed a kiss to her head and sat up, pulling her skirts down and tucking the blanket around her.

"Where are you going?" she asked him sleepily.

"To the privy," he said, slipping out the door.

Sansa tugged the blankets to her chin, and drifted off to sleep with a smile.

***

Sandor stood against the privy door and guided his cock out of his breeches. It was hot and heavy in his hand. He ran a thumb over the tip, spreading the moisture. Closing his eyes, he remembered the look on her face, the soft mewling sounds she was making. He gripped himself hard and began pumping. His whole being was centered on the pleasure, on remembering how wet she had been for him. He brought the fingers that had touched her wetness, that had been inside her, to his mouth and sucked the saltiness off them. When his body jerked in release and his seed spilled over his hand, he whispered her name.

He still stood there long after, his now limp cock in his hand. He was trying to remember when last he had such a powerful release. He honestly couldn't remember. Despite what he had told her, her cunt was the tightest he had ever felt. Even with just one finger it was a tight fit.

"This is madness," he groaned to the privy walls, squeezing himself, feeling his cock harden again.

When he returned to the room she was curled up in a little ball and sleeping on the other side of the bed. He considered pulling her close to him, considered sharing his heat with her, but thought better of the idea. He had crossed a line today he never intended, and he wondered how best to retrace his steps.

In the morning he was down to breakfast before she and Tommy awoke. He seemed to need less sleep then they did. Perhaps because they were both still growing. He wondered if his little bird would gain more height over the years. She was already one of the tallest maids he had come across.

She and Tommy came down together, both rubbing their eyes blearily and dragging their bags with them. There was bread, jam, and fresh churned butter on the table. "Eat quickly," he told them, signaling to the innkeeper for ale.

Dawn had just broken when they walked out the inn. The air smelled clean and sweet, as it always did after a thunderstorm. But nothing could be half as sweet as the blush and the smile his little bird gave him as he lifted her into her saddle.

It was harder than he had anticipated, not returning her smile.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Sansa tried to catch his eye, but again he ignored her. All day yesterday she had tried to talk to him while he maintained his gruff silence. They had camped outside at night, and when Tommy fell asleep she had given him a tremulous smile. A smile of encouragement, she remembered and blushed. But he had simply snorted and told her to go to sleep.

She cast her eyes at him again and worried her lip. She wondered if she had disgusted him somehow.

She slowed down and waited to ride beside Snowy, the white horse. She had finally named the horses yesterday. Her brown horse she called Dancer, and she had to admit he was a sweet, gentle thing. He would eat pieces of apple from her hands without any desire to eat her fingers as well. When the Hound had seen this in the morning, he had finally spoken to her. "You'll rot his teeth," he had growled.

Sansa sighed, trying to shake the Hound out of her thoughts. "Tommy," she said, leaning forward to pat Dancer's mane. "You never told me how you came to squire for the Hound."

Tommy considered her for a moment. His little nose always wrinkled up when he was thinking about something, and it was very wrinkled right now. "Well, I suppose there's no harm telling you the truth. What with you being the Hound's wife and all... I am a Clegane bastard."

Sansa gripped her reigns tightly, looked into his clear gray eyes, and wondered how she hadn't noticed this before. "Not... not the Hound's?" she asked.

"No, not the Hound's. My mother was a washer woman at the keep and Ser Gregor raped her. She died giving birth to me. My grandmother always blamed me for it. Said it was because I was too big and it ripped my mother apart getting me out. My wet nurse told me that wasn't true though. Said I was a normal sized baby." He spoke in a calm, steady voice. "I was bent on joining a traveling circus when the Hound made a detour to the keep on the way to Casterly Rock. Someone must have told him about me, and he said I could squire for him. He's been good to me. He does most things himself, doesn't beat me, feeds me well, and keeps me in warm clothes." His eyes were hard and determined when he turned to look at her again. "And he said he will teach me to fight when I am older."

Sansa was quiet for a while. "I am sure you will make a great warrior," she said to Tommy. But her eyes were watching the Hound's back.

***

"We'll be needing two rooms if you have them," he said to the innkeeper, placing coppers on the table. "One for me and the boy and one for her." He pointed his thumb at the little bird. "And bring us food, two mugs of ale, and a flagon of wine."

A comely wench brought them a tray laden with soup, bread, and a roast chicken. "There you go milords, milady. I'll be back with the wine and ale in a bit."

Sandor grabbed the wench's arm before she left. Her brown eyes widened when she looked into his face. "Make sure the wine is a good vintage," he said, pressing a few coppers into her hand.

"Of course, milord," she said, gripping the coppers, her pretty mouth curving in a smile.

He broke the bread and started working on his soup. Tommy was already slurping noisily. But when he looked up at his little bird she was just sitting there, her eyes wide on him.

"Eat," he said, "before it gets cold." She lowered her lashes and picked up her spoon.

The wench returned with their drinks. "Here you are milords, milady," she said. When she placed the wine before him she bent more than she had to, smiling up at him as she gave him a good view of her ample teats.

He smirked at her when she stood straight. "What is your name?" he asked.

"Everyone calls me Dolly, if it please milord," she said, curtsying and smiling impishly.

"Well, Dolly, have you had news from north of here?"

"Hm, let me see," she said. She touched a finger to her mouth lightly as if in thought. Sandor thought it more likely to draw attention to her lush curving lips. "Well we had a man from Acorn Hall. He said the rivers and streams were flooded because of all the raining. And he said that many of the villages on his way were sacked, but that the villagers were rebuilding." She shook her head and looked sad all of a sudden. "All this war, and with winter right around the corner. You'd think the mighty Lannisters and Baratheons would think of preparing for it rather than fighting each other."

"You are wise beyond your years, Dolly," he said, raising his glass to her.

She dimpled. "Well if milord needs anything, anything at all, he just has to ask."

"Oh, he will," he assured her, returning his attention to the food.

There was a clatter and a crash and he looked up to see his little bird standing. "Excuse me," she said, her face red. The lap of her dress was covered in soup. Bits of meat and vegetable were sliding sluggishly down the gray fabric.

"You're supposed to eat it, not wear it," he told her as she swiped ineffectually at the mess with a small handkerchief.

"I know that," she countered sharply, glaring at him.

"Oh deary," said Dolly walking up to them. "Come, I'll take you to your room and bring you hot water so you can wash up." She took the little bird's arm and led her away. "Such a pretty dress, I was just telling my sister in the kitchens. I'll help you get the stain out."

***

Sansa washed up as quickly as she could. There was a small mirror above the washbasin and her face in it looked wild eyed and panicked.

She rummaged through her bag and brought out the yellow dress the Hound had made for her and pulled it on. She tried as best she could to smooth out the wrinkles but it was no use. Instead she loosened her hair from it's braid and brushed it out. He had seemed to like her hair when he touched it and... well _sniffed _it in her room at King's Landing.

She closed her door and made her way through the darkened hallway. _Should have brought the candle_, she thought, feeling the wall for the turn the hallway took. She stopped abruptly when she heard footsteps and saw the glow of a candle approach.

"Milord, retiring for the night already?" asked a female voice. Sansa recognized it as Dolly.

"Aye," the Hound rasped. "I have a long day tomorrow."

"Want me to warm your bed tonight?"

He snorted. "My squire will warm it soon enough. The boy sleeps as much as a housecat."

"Well if boys is what milord likes..."

"Watch yourself, wench," he said. "The boy is my nephew."

"I was just japing," she said. "You're a big man," she purred. "Are you big everywhere?"

He laughed. "I suppose I am. Does my face not disgust you, Dolly?"

"Well you won't be fucking me with your face now, will you? Not unless you are a very good boy." He laughed again. "Come back down, milord. I know where my father keeps his Arbor red."

"Your father has Arbor wines?"

"Isn't that what I just told you?" she said in a teasing tone. "Sweet wines, sour wines. I'll let you have a taste... if you want."

The footsteps and the glow of the candle retreated, leaving Sansa in the dark. After a few moments she felt her way back to her room.

There was a knock on the door and Tommy walked in. "You didn't eat so I brought you bread and cheese."

"Thank you Tommy," she said, taking the plate from his hands. "Is the Hound still downstairs?"

"Yes. He's drinking with some men. Buying them rounds. He wants to find the best route to take from here."

"Is... is Dolly with him?" she asked.

Tommy shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.

"It's okay, Tommy," she said softly. "You don't have to tell me."

He nodded. "Good night, Sansa," he said, making his way to the door.

"Wait," she called out. "Show me to your room."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I am his wife and I am meant to share his bed, not you."

"But the Hound said-"

"I don't care what the Hound said, Tommy." She was on the verge of tears now.

"Don't cry, Sansa!" he said. He looked alarmed. "It's just that the Hound is drinking a lot right now..."

"When is he not drinking a lot?" she asked, swiping at her eyes.

She lay awake in the large bed for an hour or two. When she heard the door open and shut she sat up and pushed the hair from her face. He was walking around unsteadily, trying to take off articles of his clothing. He finally noticed her and stood still, his eyes glittering in the firelight.

"What are you doing here," he rasped, scowling.

She got out of the bed and walked towards him. Her nightdress was thin and her skin prickled in the cold air. "I sent Tommy to my room. Let me help you undress."

He pushed away her proffered hand. "I'll do it myself. You just shut up and go to sleep."

Sansa watched him struggle to take his mail off. She remembered another night when she had watched him thus. It seemed so long ago, their wedding night. "She's a very beautiful woman," she said.

"Who?" he asked, looking blearily at her.

"Dolly," she replied, her voice a whisper.

He looked at her with a quirked eyebrow for a moment before understanding dawned on his face. Then he threw back his head and laughed. "Is the fine little bird feeling jealous? Is she feeling inadequate compared to a buxom barmaid? This is too much!"

She slapped his face hard. And then she immediately recoiled, taking several steps back, a look of horror on her face.

"What is your problem?" he asked, all laughter wiped off his face.

"I know that you don't want me, Hound," she whispered, unable to meet his eyes. "You have made that abundantly clear. But to mock me like this is too much, even from you."

"Don't want you? Don't want you?" he asked, his voice rough. He stalked towards her, his face furious. "Stupid little bird. Always so polite. So courteous." She gasped when he pulled the hand that had slapped him and pressed it to the bulge between his legs. "Always peering into my face when any other woman would have looked down and noticed this long ago. Would have mocked at it." He rubbed himself lightly with her hand and groaned. Sansa felt an exquisite pain shoot down to her nether regions, and felt herself grow uncomfortably wet. "Little bird," he rasped, his voice a curse or a prayer. "Sometimes I wonder how I can even walk from wanting you all the time. I think of fucking you every way imaginable. Of spreading your legs and taking you hard, of you riding me with your teats bouncing above me, or me pushing you to the ground and taking you from behind like the dog I am." He laughed a harsh laugh, his face terrible in the firelight. "But you know something, little bird? It's a secret. Can you keep a secret?" He grabbed her hair roughly and kissed her hard, his mouth tasting of sour wine. "I may be a dog," he whispered against her mouth, "but I am also a man. And sometimes a man wants to do the honorable thing. Don't ask me why. It's like a sickness I can't purge myself of." He pushed her away in disgust. At himself or her she could not tell. He sat down on the bed before continuing. "In a week, or in a year, or in two years, you will come across a handsome knight who does not want to beat you bloody. Despite what I said to you, such knights do exist..." He trailed off, his expression pained.

"Do you really think so little of me?" she whispered. "I love you," she said, her voice cracking.

"Aye, maybe you do. Or maybe you mistake gratitude for love." He shook his head. "You are so young. What do you know? When I was an ugly pup your age, even I had my head full songs." He laughed his rattling laugh again. "You, of course, are more likely to have your happy ending. Hang on to your dreams, little bird. I won't let you throw yourself away on the likes of me." He looked tired all of a sudden, his shoulders sloping.

Sansa just stood there. She wanted to take him in her arms. Show him what she could find no words for. But she was suddenly afraid. What if he was right? The Hound always did this to her. He always said things that confused her thoughts, made her feel stupid and unsure. She held herself instead, her body trembling.

He was quiet for a long time. And when next he spoke his voice was low and slurred. "Just know that if you are my wife in truth and not just in name when you meet your handsome knight... I will kill him." He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. "But first I will kill Gregor," he mumbled before falling asleep.

This time when she covered him with his cloak, she made sure to leave his face bare. She went one step further, pushing the hair out of his eyes and pressing a kiss to his ruined mouth.

She prayed late into the night. She stayed kneeling long after she had run out of words and out of gods to say them to. When she could kneel no more, she walked on aching legs to her side of the bed, lay down, and closed her eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Thunder sounded again, cutting through the gentle patter of rain. They were standing against the trunk of an ancient tree, taking shelter under it's majestic canopy. Sandor looked up, and was rewarded by a heavy droplet landing directly into his eye. He cursed and swiped at his eye as Tommy laughed.

He looked over Tommy's head to the slim form of his little bird. She was standing very still, looking blankly towards the gray rain-soaked world beyond the canopy. Sandor thought her lovely Tully eyes were staring farther into the distance, seeing strange and wonderful things that someone like him could not begin to imagine. She visibly shivered and he looked away.

When the rain let up they walked their horses on the mushy trail. This wasn't the King's Road or the Goldroad. It was a much smaller, barely used trail. If they weren't vigilant they could walk off the trail altogether and wander into the forest. Still, this trail would pass through two another small village before they finally came to Riverrun and ended their journey. He was hoping that, unlike the three burned villages they had already passed through, this village would still be standing. It looked like it would rain all night.

He cast another glance towards her. Her eyes were downcast, her one hand holding the reigns while the other was bunched into her skirts, keeping them from being muddied. He let Stranger follow Tommy on his own as he walked to her. He placed his hands around her small waist and lifted her into her saddle. "Thank you, Hound," she murmured, not meeting his eyes.

Sandor grunted in reply and returned to walk Stranger. He stroked the horse's damp mane. He would wait for the ground to harden before climbing onto the saddle.

As the day darkened prematurely, the damp air chilled around them. She sneezed a dainty little sneeze and he had to stop himself from turning around and looking at her yet again. It was difficult to imagine someone as perfect as his little bird doing something so normal as sneezing. But he told himself to leave her alone, to stop watching her like a hawk.

Her voice came back to haunt him. "I love you," she had said.

Stupid little bird, he thought, bitterly.

It was raining on them lightly as they came across the village at last. This village too was burned. They walked through it, looking at the blackened dripping skeletons of what had been cozy farmhouses. Another graveyard, he thought. No graves in sight but the dead haunt it still.

"Hound! Sansa!" Tommy called out from behind them. Sandor turned to look at him. His orange hair was plastered to his head and his nose was a bright red beacon on an otherwise pale face. "I found a building that's still standing," he said, beckoning them.

It was out of the ordinary to find a sept here, no matter how small and ramshackle it turned out to be. Villages of this size generally relied on traveling septons to care for their holy needs. It seemed the villagers had been proud of their sept though. It was built of quarried stone, and therefore survived the half-hearted attempt to kindle it.

They tied the horses under nearby trees and fed them from feed bags. The little bird tended to her horse herself now, patting his nuzzle and chirping to him softly. He felt a reluctant smile tug at his lips. Dancer, she called the brown horse. He was glad she liked him. He had visited many stables before decided on the gentle long-legged bay for his little bird. But she had told him she didn't like riding before Sandor could gift the horse to her.

It seemed colder in the little sept than it had been outside, but at least it was dry.

"Plenty of dry wood for fire," Tommy said, grinning, as he pointed at the few scattered pews.

His little bird was glancing around, taking in the damaged interior and the crude depictions of the Seven above the small alter. Fine little thing that she was, she had probably never seen such a humble sept before.

He helped Tommy break some pews apart and start a fire in the center of the sept. When the fire was kindled, Sandor stood as close as he dared over the flames, warming his hands. Their rations for the night were laid out already. Three shriveled apples, a loaf of black bread, and hard cheese. He settled himself on his bedroll and waited for a few more minutes, watching the flames dance. Then his temper flared.

"Stop your incessant praying and come eat!" he yelled.

Her kneeling body jumped a little, then visibly trembled. But she otherwise ignored him.

Tommy was watching him, his gray eyes narrowed.

"Shut up," Sandor growled, though Tommy hadn't said a word. "And pass me the wine."

She finally came to the fire after a while. Her hair was still wet and her lips had a faint bluish tint. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out an extra cloak, the yellow cloak he had wrapped around her at their wedding, and drew it around her trembling body.

"Here, Sansa," Tommy gently said to her, passing her the plate of food.

She thanked him but just placed the food aside, her eyes on the flames. "We will reach Riverrun tomorrow," she said.

It was not a question but he answered anyway. "Aye. By tomorrow noon you will be with your family."

"Where will you go?"

He laughed softly. "Aren't you going to ask me to stay with you, little bird? Perhaps beg your brother to take me on? Or are you so eager to be rid of me?"

The joke was weak at best, and at worst in poor taste.

"_I love you," she had whispered, her voice breaking, her lovely face screwed up in anguish._

She didn't smile at his attempt at levity. "You wouldn't stay," she said, her voice calm though her body shivered. She pulled her yellow cloak tighter around her. "Even if I asked you. As soon as you drop me at Riverrun you two will be off, hunting Ser Gregor."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You think you know me, little bird?" he asked softly.

She shrugged, her pale face still as stone. "You aren't too difficult too figure out," she said. She didn't seem to realize how lightly his temper was tethered, because she continued. "Tell me that I am wrong, Hound. Tell me that you will not seek your death at the hands of your brother as soon as you are rid of me. Tell me that isn't the only reason you live, you breathe?"

He sneered and got to his feet. But to do what he could not say. Shake her? Kiss her? Before he could make up his mind Tommy squawked "A song! A song!"

"What the buggering hells are you on about?" he yelled at the idiot boy's red face.

Tommy cleared his throat. "Sansa promised to sing for us our last night on the road. Didn't you, Sansa?"

"I did, Tommy," she said, smiling slightly and reaching out to ruffle his hair. She calmly turned her gaze up to Sandor, and finally he sat down.

Perhaps it was her voice, sweet and clear as it sang _Florian and Jonquil_, that drew them to the little stone sept. Or perhaps they too were looking for shelter from the cold and the damp. The sept doors exploded open, and Sandor was on his feet again. But this time with his sword in his hand.

***

There were five men. Lannister men.

"Well, well, well. What have we here? A hound, a mutt, and a wolf-bitch." The man who spoke was tall and blonde. Handsome, even, except for the sneer on his face.

He turned to look at the Hound. "The king is very upset with you, Sandor," he said solemnly, "but he still holds you in great regard. He understands your pretty little wife confused you for a while. And if you return with us quietly and lick his boots enough, I am sure he will forgive you."

"Is that so?" the Hound rasped, though he did not lower his sword an inch. "The king told you this personally?"

"No, of course not," the man said. "I am coming from Casterly Rock. Besides, the king does not speak to the likes of me. It was the Imp who told us this with a raven. Didn't he?" He looked to his men, and they nodded.

The Hound laughed. "I know you are lying, Bryndas. And you forget that I know Joffrey. That in some ways I made him. I know that the king would have me tortured for days before executing me publicly for desertion."

Bryndas shrugged his shoulder and grinned. "Worth a try, wasn't it Sandor?"

"Aye, I suppose it was. And what about the little bird? Does he want her alive?"

Bryndas turned to look her up and down, assessing her. Sansa squirmed uncomfortably. "What a tasty little thing," he said. "The king must prefer men for all the interest he showed in retrieving her. I tell you what, Sandor. Since you and I go way back, I will fuck her only once before giving her a clean death. My men can have her corpse, but by then she wouldn't care. What say you to that?"

The Hound smirked slowly, dangerously. He spun his heavy two-handed sword around with just one hand. "You want her? Come get her."

Bryndas signaled to his men and they approached the Hound. Sansa grabbed Tommy's hand and pulled him back into the shadows near the alter, her heart thudding painfully in her chest.

The four men yelled battle-cries as they now rushed at the Hound. The Hound moved, more quickly and gracefully than she could have imagined. Everything happened at once, yet it seemed to Sansa as if the world had slowed around her. There was the grating clang of sword hitting sword and the impact threw the first man to the ground. The second man the Hound kicked, sending him flying towards the wall. Tommy pulled his hand out from her sweaty grip as the Hound slid his sword into the belly of the third man. The fourth man took longer, and it seemed that he managed to land a blow to the Hound. But then the Hound swung his sword in an arc and embedded it into the man's shoulder. When he pulled his sword free blood gushed into the air. Pulling a knife from his boot, the Hound threw it at the man struggling to get up near the wall, and the man crumbled.

The Hound spun his sword and turned to face the remaining two men. His face and mail were covered in a spray of blood, and his sword was dripping with it.

Bryndas was standing near the fire, his blonde hair gleaming in the firelight, a strange smile on his face. The other man was standing to the side, over Tommy's prone body.

Sansa gasped. There was a pool of blood forming around Tommy's head.

"Little bugger tried to prick me with this," the man said sourly, holding a slim bloodied knife in his hand.

The Hound roared and ran towards him. The man gaped stupidly and only half attempted to save his life. The Hound punched his face and threw him to the ground. He grabbed the man's hair, picked up the slim knife, and sliced his neck open from ear to ear.

Sansa haltingly moved towards Tommy, avoiding looking at the dying man near her. She knelt down and placed her ear over his heart. "He is alive," she whispered, looking up into the Hound's eyes.

"Well, well," Bryndas called out. "It's just you and me, Sandor. Come dance with me, old friend!"

"You are no friend of mine," the Hound turned to him, sneering.

Bryndas tsked. "You wound me, old boy. We practically grew up together at Casterly Rock. You cannot begin to imagine how hurt I was when I wasn't invited to your wedding." Bryndas bent down and picked up a burning log. Armed with fire and a sword, he approached them.

"Only cowards fight with fire, Bryndas," the Hound said, going forward to meet him.

Bryndas laughed. "Since the gods did not bless me with monstrous height and strength, I think I should be allowed to compensate."

The Hound circled Bryndas warily, his wide gray eyes fixed on the burning log.

Bryndas swung his sword at the Hound's stomach and missed by only a few inches. Then he swung the log at his face, causing the Hound to block it with his sword. The Hound hissed when Bryndas's sword cut into the flesh of his thigh.

"Sandor!" she cried out, her voice a plea.

The Hound looked at her, and then back at the Bryndas. Before she knew it he had reached out and grabbed the flaming log with his bare left hand. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. He tossed the log away and swung his sword at Bryndas. Bryndas parried but fell a few steps back. Soon the Hound was swinging blow after blow and Bryndas fell to his knees. The Hound landed another blow and Bryndas's sword went clattering into the darkness.

"Just like in training," the Hound said, his breath heaving, his eyes on Bryndas's upturned face. "Except for this part." Using both hands, though the flesh of his left must have hurt unbearably, he drove the sword into Bryndas's chest.

Blood and spit bubbled from his mouth before he died.

He stood for a long time, looking down at Bryndas. Then he leaned forward and gently brushed the man's eyes closed.

The Hound turned and limped towards her. He sat down heavily against the wall.

She had Tommy's head in her lap. She had inspected it, and there was a large cut in his scalp. She cradled Tommy close to her and looked to the Hound, tears dripping off her cheeks.

"He's probably just unconscious," he said in a soft voice. "The scalp bleeds freely when it is cut, but it is usually not as bad as it appears. Cut some strips of linen and bind it tightly."

She sniffed, gently placed Tommy's head on the ground, and stood up. She brought out a clean chemise from her bag. She had no knife and couldn't think where to look for one, but then she saw something glinting to the side by the wall. She tried not looking into the man's face as she tugged the knife free. Bile welled up at the back of her throat as she wiped the gore onto her dress, but she swallowed and took several deep breaths, keeping herself from vomiting.

When she had bandaged Tommy's head and made a pillow out of a dress for him, she finally looked up at the Hound.

"Can I... Can I look at your hand?" she asked hesitantly. She was afraid he would push her aside again, that he would become mean like he always did when she reached out to him.

That he didn't worried her even as it relieved her.

"My hand is the least of my worries, little bird," he said softly. "Grab a pot and boil some wine, and bring it to me."

Sansa busied herself doing as he asked. She heard his hiss of pain and looked up. He was sitting against the wall still, but he had managed to push down his breeches to his knees. He was looking down to his lap, his face hidden behind sweaty hair.

Sansa brought the boiling wine to him, careful lest she spill in. She knelt beside him. There was dark blood running down his left leg. Sansa looked at the large gash on his thigh, open till the bone, and felt herself grow dizzy.

"Carefully, little bird," he groaned. "Pour it over the cut."

"Hound, I can't," she whispered, her eyes wide, the nausea returning.

"You can, I can't. My hands are shaking too much. Quickly, before I die of blood loss trying to convince you."

Sansa looked into his eyes, glazed and slumberous instead of hard and flinty like they usually were, and something snapped in place inside her. Her breathing steadied, and her head cleared. She pushed his hair out of his face and kissed him on the mouth. Then she picked the pot up with the edge of her dress and poured a steady stream onto the wound, cleaning it and causing it to bleed anew. Steam rose from the cut and his good hand gripped her shoulder hard, but he made no sound. She reached for the linen strips and began binding his thigh. He helped her hold the gash together as she tightly tied it up. When she sat back and looked at her handiwork, a large bloody stain was already spreading across it.

"Your hand now," she whispered.

He held it out to her. He had it curled up in a claw and he groaned when she smoothed his fingers open. The flesh was red and raw, and covered in blisters. She reached for the remaining wine and poured it over it. After patting it dry, she bandaged it as well.

She brought the bedrolls towards the Hound and Tommy. The Hound gratefully unrolled his own and lay down, but she had to drag Tommy onto his. She gathered the pile of wood and built a fire closer to them.

She knelt beside the Hound and pressed a hand to his forehead. His skin felt clammy, and she bit her lip.

"Hound," she whispered.

"What is it, little bird." he said sleepily.

"I am leaving now."

"Leaving?" He opened his eyes and frowned up at her. "Why are you leaving me?"

"I have to go get help," she said. Hot tears fell off her lashes onto his face. She wiped them away. "You cannot ride, and you will die if we don't get you to a maester."

He seemed to consider this. "Pretty little bird," he said, reaching to touch her hair. "I suppose it will be too much to ask you for the gift of mercy."

"Gift of mercy?" she asked.

"Aye," he said, bringing her hair to his face and smelling it. "A knife through the heart, to stop the pain."

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing in anger. "How dare you? How dare you ask this of me?" she hissed.

He laughed softly. "Stay with me for a little longer then. Tommy should wake in the morning and you can go with him to Riverrun."

"No. If I stay here and do nothing you will die." She kissed him again, tenderly. "How can the gods do this to you?" she asked. "I prayed to them, over and over again..."

He smiled sadly at her words. "I tried to tell you once, little bird. It is us men who do the deeds, not gods."

She nodded and stood up. She untied her bride cloak, bloodied and dirtied as it was, and placed it around him, tucking him in as if he were a child.

"I will be back, Hound," she vowed.

Outside the rain had stopped and faint moonlight illuminated the night sky. She approached Dancer but had another idea. He was tied far away from the other horses, and he threw his dark head back and snorted as she approached him.

So much like his master, she thought.

"Please, Stranger," she said, reaching out a steadying hand. "You are the fastest, and I need to bring help. For your master, for Sandor." He tossed his head one more time but did not try to bite her as she reached for his reigns. It was difficult climbing onto him, but after much pulling on his mane (at which he did try to bite her) she was finally astride.

Sansa had never ridden a horse as fast as she did that night. The cold wind bit at her face, made her eyes sting. Somehow her long hair was loose and flying behind her, lifting itself and slapping her in the face now and then. She could not stop to even tie it. She leaned forward and urged Stranger on.

Later in the night the horse slipped on the slick mud and they both went tumbling. Warm blood ran down from a cut in her arm as she reached for Stranger and tried to calm him. She let the sweating horse slow down and walked him for a while. The Hound loved his horse, and would never forgive her if she let him die under her.

It was difficult to know how long or how far she rode. Sleep wanted to consume her, but every time she closed her eyes she saw his face. It was still dark when she finally emerged from the forest. There were camps set up outside the keep, multiple campfires dotting the field. Beyond, she could make out the red and blue banners fluttering in the wind.

"Halt," a voice called out. "Who goes there?"

She got off Stranger as gracefully as she could. Then she turned to the two men and lifted her chin. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell," she said in a strong, carrying voice.

***

When Catelyn Stark beheld her eldest daughter, she was wordless for a moment. Sansa was taller, more womanly than she had been. But that was not the biggest change. Her hair was wild around her pale face, she was covered in blood and dirt, and there was a hard look to her Tully eyes that had never been there before.

Catelyn stood still for a moment, wondering if she was looking at a ghost.

"Mother," she heard the ghost say, her voice no longer timid and girlish as it had been. "I need men. I need to save my husband."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Sandor awoke in a warm bed, with light streaming through the window. There was a sharp pain in his right thigh, and he reached under the blankets to grip at it through the bandage.

"Don't move too much. You'll rip open the wound again," he heard his little bird say. He looked to the side. She was sitting on a comfortable looking chair by the window, working on her needlework. She put it aside and walked towards him, her silk skirts rustling in the quiet of the room. She laid a cool hand to his forehead. "Hm, your fever is returning again. I'll bring the maester."

"Little bird," he rasped to her, but his throat was dry and all that came out of his mouth was a croak.

She returned to his bed and lifted his head, allowing him to drink from a glass of cool milk laced with honey.

"Tommy woke this morning," she said. "He says his head hurts but otherwise he seems fine. The maester has given him some powders for the pain." She placed the glass on the table and wiped a drop of milk off his lip with her thumb.

"I'll be back with the maester," she told him, leaving him alone with the smell of her fragrance in the air.

… Five days later...

His hand was freshly bandaged, and he was looking blearily at the wound on his thigh. It was about nine inches wide and purplish pink. It was still seeping yellowish liquid. The maester had given him some concoction so the pain was not as sharp as it could be while they changed his bandage. He looked at the neat stitches crisscrossing the wound, and then into the rheumy eyes of the old maester.

"Was this your fine needlework, little bird?" Sandor asked, without even looking up.

"Why yes, it was," she replied from somewhere nearby, sounding pleased.

Were he hale and hearty, he would have laughed at this.

But right now he felt absurdly like weeping.

… A week later...

He was propped up on some pillows and eating a bowl of stew. She had pulled her chair close to him and was working on her perpetual needlework again.

"It is a very stupid thing your brother has done, little bird," he said to her thoughtfully. "The Frey's are dangerous enemies to have."

She bit off a piece of thread and looked down at her work approvingly. When she turned the embroidery frame his way he saw a snarling wolf. Or dog. He couldn't be sure.

"People have been doing stupid things for love since the beginning of time, have they not?" she asked, packing up her things. "Besides, love does not always end badly. You are too much of a cynic, Hound."

...Three days later...

"I got your clothes back from the washer woman and was mending them, and I found this," she said. "I thought you might like to have it."

It was the handkerchief she had tied around his hand back in King's Landing. She had it pressed and folded into a neat square, but the blood stains were still visible.

He took it from her without a word, unable to meet her eyes.

"I'll have Tommy bring you your dinner," she said softly before leaving.

…That night...

He pulled back his blanket and looked down at the jagged scar on his thigh. The maester had told him the stitches would be removed tomorrow. He looked around at the comfortable but empty room and felt the walls press towards him. He heard laughter from beyond his shut door. He closed his eyes and willed sleep to come.

… Two days later, in the morning...

She was holding the mirror for him as he shaved the stubble off his face. He only had to worry about the left side, as no hair grew on the right. A scrape of the sharp knife and he revealed the three faint lines on his cheek that she had given him. Her eyes focused on them and he smirked at her, letting her know he didn't mind these scars as much as the others.

She handed him a cloth to wipe his face with. Then she picked up the bowl of soapy water and turned to leave.

She stopped at the door and looked back to him. She seemed to hesitate a little before speaking. "There are many handsome knights here, you know," she said. "They write me poetry, give me flowers. Some sing to me. Yesterday one called me Lyanna Stark come again... And none of them seem inclined to beat me, just as you said."

She stood still, as if waiting for him to say something. But there was nothing to be said.

She closed the door softly behind her.

He clenched and unclenched his fist uselessly.

…A couple of days later...

He leaned heavily on Tommy as they took a turn around the room. When he finally allowed himself to sit down on the bed he was breathing heavily. Tommy sat on his little bird's chair and looked at him. His nose wrinkled up, and Sandor waited for him to speak.

"I have... I have something to tell you uncle," he said quietly.

It was just the two of them in the room, so he let the "uncle" slide. He lay down on the bed and pressed his hand to his head. He felt weak and dizzy, but the piercing ache in his thigh was now a dull throb. "Speak quickly, then go fetch me some wine."

"You must have heard that the Imp killed the King?" Tommy asked.

"Aye. What of it?" Somehow Sandor found it difficult to imagine the Imp as a poisoner, but he did not voice his suspicions.

"Sansa told you this?" Tommy asked.

He nodded in reply. His little bird, Tommy, and the old maester were the only ones he communicated with. The Tully's did not seem inclined to come visit an ailing former Lannister dog.

"She was afraid to tell you the whole story. She didn't know how you would take it. But I think you should know. After he killed the King the Imp was granted a trial by combat. He chose the Red Viper as his champion, while the queen chose-"

"Gregor," Sandor completed for him.

Tommy nodded. "He won of course," he said, his normally jovial face twisting unpleasantly at the words. "But the Red Viper managed to scratch him with his poisoned spear. The queen's maester tried to save him, but the poison turned his blood black, his piss full of pus, and it ate a hole the size of a fist in his side. It took him weeks to die." There was grim satisfaction on his face when he continued. "He died screaming, they say."

Sandor heard his heart thudding dully in his ears. He wasn't sure what to feel. From the first time he had picked up a sword as a lad he had dreamed of thrusting it into his brother. And now Gregor was dead.

What did he have to live for now?

…The next day, in the evening...

His little bird was right, he thought sourly, swallowing a mouthful of wine. Riverrun seemed overrun with handsome knights.

She looked pretty in her yellow dress. Her hair was gleaming in the candlelight and there was laughter in her eyes as she spoke to the girl seated beside her.

"Hound," Lady Stark called to him from across the table. He turned to look at her. He took in her beautiful pale face and the regal bearing and wondered if he was looking at his little bird twenty years from now. "Are you well enough to travel yet?"

"Not yet, my lady," he said. "But soon. I thank you again for your hospitality."

"You saved my daughter more than once," she said politely. "It was the least we could do. But as soon as you can travel you will let us know. The septon will not come here to annul your marriage, so you must go to him."

"Of course, my lady," he said, and returned his attention to his food.

…Another week of rehab and scowling at all knights even remotely handsome in shoddy lighting...

He eyed the three dusty bottles on his bedside table and laughed. He uncorked one and took a swig. Arbor red. His little bird truly spoiled him, even as she crushed him with every pretty smile she granted freely to every fool knight in Riverrun.

Tomorrow he and his little bird would take one last journey together. This journey to the sept would only take a few hours, and after that she would be free of him for good. From the sept he and Tommy would make their way to Wyndhall. Hopefully they would be able to catch a ship to the free cities from there. It would be good to leave behind the cold and the endless war.

He took another swallow of the Arbor Red and scrutinized the bottle. Maybe they should make their way to the Arbor instead. Then he could have enough Arbor Red to fill a bathtub, and maybe drown himself in it.

He laughed at his own morbid wit, if wit is what it was.

He uncorked another bottle and settled with his back to the headboard.

The wine lulled him into an uneasy sleep.

When he awoke his room was bright with candles. His head throbbed and the light pierced his eyes. He made to bring his hand to cover his eyes, but his hand would not move. He looked up to see that both his hands were tied to the headboard.

He growled and pulled at his bonds. His wrists chafed as he pulled and pulled, and finally he heard the wood of the headboard give a satisfying creak.

"Stop struggling!" he heard his little bird cry out.

***

He was wide awake and staring at her now, and Sansa shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

He pushed himself up as much as he could and eyed her. She was wearing a new flimsy nightdress he had never seen before. It was made of a gauzy butter-yellow material, and she knew that he could make out her nipples and the dark shape of the hair between her legs. She felt a hot flush spread across her whole body. Her eyes widened as the thing between his legs swelled and grew upwards towards his hard stomach.

He was watching it too, and looked somewhat taken aback to see it there.

He cleared his throat, causing her eyes to return to his face. "Care to explain why I am naked and tied to my bed, little bird?"

"Can't you guess, Hound?" she said, her hands smoothing down the skirt of her nightdress daintily. "We are about to consummate our marriage."

He laughed delightedly. "My little bird as the seductress? Even my depraved mind had not come up with this scenario." He grinned at her. "Do I have no say in this, Sansa?" he asked.

She opened her mouth and closed it. She walked slowly towards him, as if her moving quickly would cause him to flee in fright. She watched as he pulled at his bonds again. No chance of that, she thought with relief.

She let her eyes wander over him. He had been right. Aside from noting his strength and his size, she had never dared to look closely at his body. His arms tied above him were hard with smooth muscle. His chest was dusted with hair, and with small scars. There was a large ragged scar above his right nipple, and another on the side of his stomach. She already knew the one on his leg, of course. She looked down and his powerful thighs were splayed open. She swallowed nervously as her eyed locked onto the _thing _again.

"Are you big everywhere?" Dolly the serving wench had asked. This is probably what she had been taking about.

Her fine brows drew together in worry, and she returned her gaze to his eyes. They were lovely eyes, she thought. Crinkled in amusement, and a different gray from Arya's. She thought them clear and cool as a winter morning sky.

"You have never called me by my name before... Sandor," she said, inching towards him, her voice throaty.

He smirked at her, his mouth twisting. "Aye, but then you have never gotten me drunk and tried to rape me before."

She brought a hand to her mouth in shock. "It isn't rape if you want it!" she cried.

He snorted, and then proceeded to laugh so long and hard she thought he was going to kill himself.

She pouted and drew closer to stand right beside him. She reached down and gathered the hem of her nightdress and pulled it over her head, tossing it aside with a flourish.

The laughter left him. His eyes roamed her body, pausing hungrily on her breasts and the red hair between her legs.

"Where did you get this idea of tying me to the bed, little bird?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

"My maid," she confessed. "She told me that some men like to be tied up. Tommy helped me undress you though. I couldn't move you on my own."

"Ah, the industrious maid. If I ever meet her again I will remember to give her a piece of my mind. And I can only imagine the thoughts running through poor Tommy's head right now." He struggling against his bonds again. "I am not one of those men, little bird. Dogs do not like to be chained. Loosen my bonds."

She looked at his angry face and then back to his member, thick and glistening at the end with moisture, and made up her mind. "No, I will not," she said primly, climbing onto the bed and straddling him.

She smiled at him fondly and leaned forward to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth. His member arched towards her behind, and he cursed. "Don't do this," he begged her helplessly.

"Stupid little bird, stupid little bird," she mocked. "Isn't that what you call me? Well, you are a very silly hound." She smoothed the hair out of his eyes and kissed his burnt cheek. She had the strange notion that she would like to tie his hair back, away from the face that had frightened her once, so he would never be able to hide from her again. "You say that my head is full of songs, when yours is even more full than mine. You think that when you release me from my marriage vows I will be free to marry whom I want? A dozen handsome knights could propose to me tomorrow, and my mother would turn away every one. She is planning to give me to a man twice your age, because in return he would gift my brother two thousand men to fight his war." There were tears in her eyes now, and her voice was breaking. "My sister is missing, my little brothers are all alone at Winterfell. But my mother will remain here with Robb. With the King in the North. He is all she thinks of now, it seems..."

She kissed him again, slowly, her tongue playing lightly with his. When she moved back she was smiling through her tears.

"I think I know what to do next, Hound," she said, her cheeks red. "I am to ride you with my teats bouncing above you."

He just stared at her, his mouth slightly open.

She reached back and wrapped her fingers around his hot member and began guided him into her slick entrance. She pressed her hips downwards, haltingly, her smile replaced with a look of concentration. He cursed softly and pushed up to meet her. Slowly, slowly, they had her impaled on his entire length.

"Sandor," she gasped, her face twisting in pain. She was stretched around him, and the bright burning pain was sharper than she had anticipated. All she could do to ease it was sit very still and breath rapidly, her hands braced on his stomach.

"Fuck," he swore. "Untie me. Untie me, Sansa."

When his hands were free he reached forward to gently hold her in his arms. Her skin felt unbearably sensitive as his hot hands, one callused and the other smoothly ridged, roamed her body. He cupped her breast and gently brushed a nipple with his thumb, causing her to arch her back. She moaned as the motion drew him further inside her.

He grabbed a handful of her hair and brought it to his face, breathing deeply. Still inside her, he turned and placed her on the bed. He brushed kisses to her forehead, her eyes, her nose, before finally kissing her mouth, fully and deeply. He pulled back and played with her breasts for a little while, his gaze intent as his large hand gently kneaded one, then the other. Everything seemed to burn, and she clawed at his back, urging him towards what she had no words for. When she squirmed under him, he moved back and looked at her face. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist and her arms around his neck, and smiled hugely up at him. "Well, what are you waiting for, Hound?" she asked, her cheeks rosy and still sticky with tears. "Get to it!"

He threw back his head and laughed. He was still chuckling when he began moving in her with slow even strokes. He lowered his head and took a nipple into his mouth. He sucked, and she arched into him again.

He was so large, and the way he was moving was nudging something immensely pleasurable within her. When he brought his hand between their joined bodies and touched the nub between her legs, she cried out, and her inner walls spasmed, squeezing powerfully around him.

"Fuck, little bird," he rasped, all attempts at gentility leaving him. He spread her legs wide and took hold of her arse with his large hands, lifting her hips off the bed. He pounded into her over and over again. She was tender and sensitive and it hurt a little, but Sansa just watched his face, furious with concentration, and reached out to cup his cheek. He finally stopped then, squeezing her hard and groaning her name.

Afterward, he held her tightly to his side.

"I wonder how your mother will take the news," he asked.

"She will be very angry," she replied, burrowing her face into his neck and breathing his musky scent. It was difficult to get closer to him than she already was, but it seemed she couldn't stop herself from trying.

He snorted. "An understatement if ever there was one."

She pulled herself away from him and sat up, looking down into his cool gray eyes. "Sandor, will you take me to home? To Winterfell?"

"I'll take you anywhere you want. You don't even have to ask." A smile tugged at his lips. "We could have a special collar and leash made for me and you could tug me along all day. I'll be a better pet than that direwolf of yours."

She reached out and swatted him sharply on the chest. She didn't pull back her hand after. Instead she smoothed it over his torso, feeling his skin, hair, and scars and watching as his muscles jumped and twitched under her hand. "You are not a dog. And you are nothing like Lady. You wouldn't behave yourself for a minute." Her voice sounded breathless. "Rickon and Bran are all alone."

"Aye, they are all alone. And you want to save them. When did my little bird become so gallant?" He smiled again, his mouth twitching. "I will take you to Winterfell as soon as I regain my strength. Just give me a week in the training grounds."

"You will really take me? Even if your balls freeze up north?" Her face was serious despite the words.

He laughed and shook his head. "Will you always chirp back ever ridiculous thing I say to you? As for my balls freezing," he pulled her in for a kiss, "I was hoping you would help keep them warm."

**Epilogue**

It was a crisp and clear night. Sandor sat on a log and frowned at the dirty little rat sitting by their campfire, eating their food. He looked to his wife and felt his heart soften a little. She was watching the rat intently, and he wondered if he had ever seen her look so happy before.

For some reason, that thought made him gloomy.

The rat glared at him and spoke with her mouth full of bread. "I still can't believe you did this to me, Sansa. I vowed I would kill him and now I can't." She screwed up her face in thought. "But he is just my brother-in-law, not my brother. Would I still be a kinslayer if I slayed him?"

"Arya, you will not kill the Hound," his little bird said sternly. "I love him."

"You love him? You love him!" The rat was standing up now and pointing a ridiculous skinny little sword in his face. "This monster killed Mycah, and you say you love him? I should gut him and feed his innards to the dogs!"

"Arya!" her sister cried out. Sandor's eyes widened at his wife. He thought her voice sounded somewhat whiny.

Sandor turned to the rat again. "Who is this My-cah person you keep talking about, little rat?" he asked calmly, going almost cross eyed as he watched the gleaming tip of her sword.

Her sword lowered a little and her steely gray eyes grew moist. "You don't even know? He was my friend. Joffrey lied and said Mycah hurt him, and you rode Mycah down. You killed him." She raised her sword again and narrowed her eyes. "You killed him and you don't even know his name!"

He looked away, unable to meet her gaze. He hadn't killed the Mycah boy, but he hadn't saved him either. He doubted the little rat would believe him though. His reputation was as black as his reality, and he had killed a lot of people over the years, many of them innocent.

"Get away from him!" he heard Tommy call out. He looked up to see Tommy advance towards the campfire, his small knife glinting in his hands.

Sandor frowned. He supposed it was about time got Tommy a bigger weapon and trained him. Even the rat's little stick was bigger than the toothpick Tommy was brandishing.

The little rat blinked towards Tommy. "Mycah?" she asked. But when Tommy drew closer to the fire she saw she did not know him, and her face fell. She looked to her sister in confusion.

"This is Tommy," Sansa said gently. "He is the Hound's nephew and squire. Arya please, please get your sword out of my husband's face. I beg you."

The rat eyed Tommy up and down, taking in his lanky tumbler's build, his fine-boned face, the snub nose, and the orange shock of hair crowning it all. "You don't look anything like Ser Gregor," she said.

"Thank you!" Tommy exclaimed, positively preening.

The little rat looked resigned. With her eyes still on Tommy, she slid her sword into her scabbard. Then she sat back down and reached for her bowl again.

Tommy continued looking at her suspiciously, but he tucked his knife into his boot.

"How many men do you have with you?" the little rat asked thoughtfully after a while, licking her bowl clean.

"Don't do that, Arya," his wife said, "I'll give you more." She took the bowl and ladled more stew into it from the pot by the fire. "There are about a hundred men," she continued. "Sandor suggested we reinforce Winterfell and for once mother agreed with him."

The little rat snorted. "I wish I could have seen mother's face when you told her you love this ugly dog."

"Arya!" his little bird whined again.

Sandor considered his new sister-in-law solemnly. "Your wish is my command, little rat," he said. He reached for his wife, pulling her into his lap. She squeaked at first but quieted when he kissed her deeply. Then she moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, melting into him.

"Seven hells!" he heard a high pitched swear.

He pulled back and smirked. The little rat had an almost comic look of disgust screwing together her features. "Tommy, hand the little rat a looking glass. That is precisely the look her mother had!" 


End file.
